


All That Really Matters, In The End

by luxover



Series: All That Really Matters, In The End [1]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-10
Updated: 2012-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-29 08:29:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/317819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxover/pseuds/luxover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Almost everyone’s asleep on the bus. “Hey,” Thiago whispers, and Rafa looks at him. They’re sitting together—they always do, whenever they can, of course, of course—and their shoulders press together where the two seats meet. “Quit taking up the whole armrest.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	All That Really Matters, In The End

“Hey,” Thiago whispers, and Rafa looks at him. They’re sitting together—they always do, whenever they can, of course, of course—and their shoulders press together where the two seats meet. “Quit taking up the whole armrest.”

“You quit taking up the whole armrest,” Rafa whispers back, and Thiago’s immediately annoyed. Rafa does stuff like that all the time—little things that drive Thiago mad, because he knows what Thiago hates—and he doesn’t want to deal with it.

“Move your elbow,” Thiago says slowly, “or I will move it for you.”

“No, you move your elbow,” Rafa says, and there’s this huge grin on his face like he knows exactly what he’s doing—of _course_ he knows, this is _Rafa_ —and Thiago thinks, _That’s it._ He uses his entire bodyweight and throws himself at Rafa, shouldering Rafa off his seat and almost into the aisle; then he puts his entire forearm down on the armrest and grips onto it for dear life with all five fingers.

Rafa comes back at him just as hard; he pushes Thiago back and tries to pull his fingers off, knocks at the sides of Thiago’s feet with his own. It’s a struggle, both of them trying so hard to stay quiet, whispering, _Motherfucker,_ and _Move, you puta,_ and, _No, you._ Really, Thiago thinks, it’s a miracle that their shuffling and heavy breathing don’t wake everyone up.

He reaches down with his free hand, pinches some of Rafa’s leg hair, and pulls hard. Rafa lets out a loud yelp, but it does the trick; he backs off of the armrest as he swings his head around, making sure he didn’t wake anyone up.

“That was a dick move,” Rafa hisses when he turns back around.

Thiago doesn’t care, just shrugs and says, “My arm is really rested right now.” He makes a show of the fact that he has the armrest.

“If we didn’t have a match tomorrow, I would punch your face in,” Rafa says, and he rolls his eyes. “You’d be uglier than dos Santos.”

“Hey, now,” Thiago says, and he’s going to say something about how that’s not fair, no one could be that ugly—it’s fun picking on Jonathan when he’s not awake to defend himself—but then he thinks, Jonathan. _Jonathan._

Jonathan’s sitting just across the aisle from them, completely passed out with his mouth hanging open. He hasn’t moved an inch since they first got on the bus, and Thiago suspects it’s because he’s blocking the rest of them out with his massive headphones.

“Jona,” he says. Rafa gets it, and just like that, there’s an armrest armistice.

“He _is_ a deep sleeper,” Rafa agrees. “Do you have your marker? I forgot mine in the kitchen.”

Thiago doesn’t ask, just digs through his bag until he finds it and comes up clutching the Sharpie. Rafa’s smiling so widely that he’s biting his lip to keep from laughing.

“Not the face, though,” Rafa says. “El Mister will kill us.”

They write their own names in hearts along Jonathan’s forearms because Jonathan’s going to know it was them anyway, and it’s more fun like this; when he still hasn’t woken up, they take turns blowing air at his face and watching him twitch. That finally gets him in the end—the air-blowing—and he wakes up, swats at them sleepily with one hand.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Rafa says, and Thiago has to hold back a laugh.

Jonathan looks confused for a second and then says, “What are you assholes doing?” It comes out pretty loud, though, because he’s got his music on and because he’s got no such thing as volume control. He drags his headphones down around his neck.

That wakes Sergi up, and Sergi doesn’t even open his eyes, just says, “Shut _up,_ Jonathan,” and then turns his head the other way. Thiago latches onto Rafa, can barely hold himself upright as he tries so hard not to laugh, and they both go scrambling back to their seats. Jonathan looks over at them, confused, with tired eyes.

“I hate you guys,” he says. He puts on his headphones and goes back to sleep.

“A job well done,” Rafa whispers to him, and Thiago smiles, nods back. He lets Rafa have the armrest and falls asleep with his head against the window.

 

Their match goes well. Thiago starts and Rafa comes on in the sixty-third minute, scores one at the seventy-ninth, and Thiago is so proud because that’s his best friend—his baby brother—who just scored. And it was a beautiful goal, Thigao thinks, quick and clean and right past the keeper, right down the middle of the goal, and Thiago loves it, loves watching his brother play because his brother does things with a football at his feet, beautiful things that are going to take him to the first squad and to the World Cup and into history.

Rafa makes a beeline across the pitch for him and they hug, chest to chest, and for a second Thiago can feel Rafa’s smile against the side of his face. But then everyone’s piling in on them in celebration—Jonathan and Marc and Victor and Saul—and Thiago pulls away, watches the way his brother smiles and how sweat drips down his neck.

 

The next weekend, they wake up and don’t do anything. They shuffle downstairs, Thiago in sweatpants and Rafa just in his boxers, and because Rafa doesn’t even put a shirt on, Thiago takes this an open invitation to slap his back with an open palm; Rafa complains and threatens, but ultimately does nothing. 

They eat scrambled eggs that their mom makes and play some FIFA, their upper-bodies slumped on the couch and their legs spread out on the coffee table. The volume is up way too loud, but Thiago only realizes that the remote is on top of the tv by the time he sits down, so he leaves it as is.

“Jonathan’s coming over, I think,” he says. 

“Not it,” Rafa calls, and he means that he’s not giving up his controller when Jonathan finally gets there. Thiago kicks his feet.

“Loser rotates out,” Thiago says.

“ _Exactly,_ ” Rafa says. “Not it.”

They get real into it, after that, shouting at the screen and at each other, squirming on the couch as if their movements in real life affect the game. Rafa scores next, and that’s really not ideal because he was just saying how he was the best, and maybe he is, but Thiago doesn’t think so.

When the doorbell rings, they ignore it; there’s never a really good stopping point in the game that won’t mess one of them up, and then there’s house rules to deal with, and so they can get it in a minute. It’s probably just Jonathan, anyways, and he’s suffered through worse than standing on a doorstep for five minutes.

“Pause the game and get the door,” Rafa says, and Thiago laughs. The rule is if you need to pause it, you automatically forfeit the football when the game resumes play. “You’re leaving Jonathan waiting; that’s not polite.”

“It’s really not,” Thiago agrees. “Mom raised you better than that; go let him in.”

“Yeah, right,” Rafa snorts, but Thiago guesses it doesn’t really matter much either way, because Jonathan walks in the room right after that.

“No need to get up for me,” Jonathan says, and Thiago bets he rolls his eyes, too, but he’s not sure because he can’t look away from the tv.

“Hey, Jona,” Rafa says. “You get to play next.”

“Alright,” Jonathan says. “How much longer until Thiago loses?”

“Hey!” Thiago says, and Rafa pulls a face, mocks him.

“Hey!” he says in a squeaky voice. Jonathan laughs and throws himself down on one of the armchairs. 

“Actually,” Jonathan says, sitting up and looking at their mostly empty bowls on the table, “can I have some eggs? I’m gonna go grab some eggs.” He gets right back up and heads into the kitchen. Thiago really appreciates that about Jonathan, how he doesn’t make them play host to him. It makes everything easier.

It doesn’t hurt that he’s not there to see Thiago get demolished 5-1, either. Thiago tosses his controller onto Jonathan’s chair and broods for a minute. 

“Rafa,” he says, “that last shot was so close.”

“What does it matter?” Rafa asks. “You lost _5-1._ ”

“5-1?” Jonathan repeats. He walks in, shoveling scrambled eggs into his mouth. “That’s brutal.” Rafa nods. “What else is brutal is the way you two are draped all over each other, half naked. I don’t get this; are you trying to seduce me with your abs, or something? Because mine are better.”

Both Rafa and Thiago burst out laughing at that, loud and long and Jonathan just stares at them.

“Alright, alright,” Jona says. “Let’s go, let me pick my team.” He sits down and places his bowl on the table, and Thiago sits up, crosses his legs as they start the match. Rafa plays with his tongue between his teeth, he notices, and it’s such a small detail but he’s never noticed it before, not in all the times that he’s seen Rafa play.

He ignores it, goes back to watching the screen. Jonathan’s winning; it’ll be nice to see Rafa lose, for once. 

 

The next day they have practice, it’s hot as hell out; Thiago starts sweating before he even makes it to the pitch from the locker room. It’s doing weird things to him, the weather; making him quiet and sleepy. The humidity makes him feel almost like he’s walking through jelly, although no one else seems to feel it, because they’re all acting as wild as usual.

He and Rafa pair up to stretch, using each other for balance as they stretch their quads. Rafa looks at him strangely but doesn’t say anything, and Thiago ignores it even though it’s unusual that he can’t tell what Rafa’s thinking. Thiago supposes that the familiarity they have is the kind that can only come with growing up with someone, with living with them for seventeen years.

They move to stretching their hamstrings and Rafa goes first, lying down on his back so Thiago can grab his ankle, push his leg back. Rafa’s shins are covered in a light sheen of sweat from their warm-up run.

“Harder,” Rafa says, and Thiago laughs a little; it sounds so sexual. But then Thiago thinks, since when does he take what Rafa says in a sexual manner? He stops laughing; it’s all very strange and Rafa looks worried, his eyebrows knit together. “Thiago,” he says. “Come on, I can’t feel the stretch.”

“Okay, okay,” Thiago says. He pushes a little bit harder.

When it’s his turn for the stretch, Thiago moves to sit down in the grass, and the sudden movement makes his head feel light, makes stars appear in front of his eyes.

“Hey,” Rafa says, “are you okay?”

“He doesn’t look okay,” someone else says, and it’s Jonathan from just a few feet away. And it’s all very strange, they way he feels and the way they sound; he feels too light, and they sound like they’re speaking to him from underwater. 

El Mister comes over and takes one look at him, tells him to go take a sip of water and sit down in the shade. Rafa helps him stand up and Thiago wobbles his way to the sideline, but then he keeps going, doesn’t stop, just heads to the locker room because he doesn’t feel well, doesn’t feel well at all, and it came out of nowhere. He throws up in the toilet and then lies down, presses his forehead against the cold tile.

He’s not sure how long he lies there, dizzy and sick, but it’s probably only ten minutes until he hears the clack of football boots in the locker room. It’s Rafa, and Rafa finds him in no time, helps him sit up and brushes his hair off of his sweaty forehead.

“Shit,” Rafa says. “You should’ve told us you were sick.”

“I’m not,” Thiago says. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.

“You are,” Rafa tells him.

Thiago leans against Rafa, just slumps his body against Rafa’s because he’s tired and doesn’t have the energy to hold himself up. Rafa’s body is hard, solid underneath his, and his skin is cool against Thiago’s own.

“Why don’t you have a girlfriend?” Thiago asks, and he has no clue where that came from because he didn’t even mean to say it; the words just came out of his mouth on their own.

“I don’t know,” Rafa laughs. He brushes back Thiago’s hair again. “Why don’t you?”

“I don’t want one,” Thiago tells him, and that—that’s not even true. Of course he wants a girlfriend.

“Good to know,” Rafa says, and smiles even though Thiago knows that’s he’s vaguely worried. Rafa looks good like that, when he’s smiling, and even when he’s not; he looks like a worn-out Polaroid picture, almost in complete focus but not quite, and Thiago is so thankful to have him.

He looks at Rafa sometimes, and he can’t believe that Rafa’s his brother. He remembers Rafa for who he was—small and timid, always mimicking the small gestures that Thiago would make—and not always for who he is—tall, strong, a footballer. And there’s nothing wrong with that, not at all, because he and Rafa go way back— back to the beginning, or before the beginning, even—but sometimes, and maybe this is the point of it all, sometimes he looks at Rafa when he’s on the pitch or on the beach or half asleep on the couch, and this feeling will shoot through him—fast and fleeting—and for a moment Thiago will wish that Rafa wasn’t his brother. It doesn’t make sense and so he doesn’t bring it up.

“I’m gonna go get the doc, alright?” Rafa asks. “Don’t go anywhere, alright?”

Thiago wants to say alright, wants to say that he won’t move a muscle, but Rafa’s out the door before he can get the words out.

 

When he gets home, his mother flutters about nervously and offers him soup and another blanket and more medicine. Thiago tells her that he just wants to sleep— _Take some medicine and sleep it off,_ the doctors had said, _it’s just the flu_ —and he does, sleeps for almost fourteen hours and wakes up in the middle of the night. 

And he’s not entirely sure that this happened—maybe he dreamed it, he doesn’t know for sure—but when he wakes up, Rafa is sitting at his desk, reading a book. The desk light is off, but he’s using one of those clip-on book lights that their dad bought them when they were kids, and it’s lighting up his cheekbones, the slope of his nose.

“What’re you doing here?” Thiago asks.

“Nothing,” Rafa says. “Go back to sleep.”

And Thiago does.

 

In the morning, their mother scolds his ear off, all, _I cannot believe you, Thiago,_ and, _Playing football when you’re sick? You should know better,_ and, _Rafa, you quit laughing or I’ll yell at you, too._

Thiago camps out on the living room couch under a mound of blankets and eats soup while watching daytime telenovelas. He reads a bit, too, but without Rafa there to keep him busy, he mostly just sleeps the day away. It’s funny, how tired being sick makes him feel and how, without him even realizing it, he has categorized his life _With Rafa_ and _Without Rafa; Awake_ and _Asleep._

Later, when Thiago is awake—with Rafa—Rafa tosses him a copy of _FourFourTwo_ from Jonathan as a get well soon gift. 

“He says sorry that he ripped out one of the Messi ads, but he really wanted it,” Rafa says, and Thiago shrugs.

“That’s okay,” he says. “How was practice?”

“It was good; weird. Without you, I mean,” Rafa explains. He’s setting up the Xbox. “Actually, it was kind of like before. You gone, and me with all the other people you left behind.”

“I never left you behind,” Thiago says.

“No, I know,” Rafa responds, and he waves a hand as if to bat away his comment. “You’re playing, yeah?” He nods to the Xbox.

“No,” Thiago says, because he’s busy thinking. He never wanted Rafa to feel left behind, because that wasn’t what Thiago wanted at all. Thiago kept climbing the ranks, squad to squad to squad, but he never planned on ever leaving Rafa behind, always intended to pull Rafa up with him because Rafa was his brother and Rafa was his friend, and where would he be without Rafa? He’d be alone and unhappy and _alone,_ and Thiago doesn’t want to be alone because being alone means being without Rafa and sometimes Thiago thinks that maybe Rafa’s all that really matters, in the end.

“Suit yourself,” Rafa says, and then under his breath, he mutters, “Sore loser.”

Thiago watches him win.

 

It doesn’t take long for him to get off bed rest and back into practice; only three days of hanging at home and then he’s back at Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper with the rest of them. Jonathan, especially, looks happy to see him, and makes sure to jog next to him during warm-up.

“The Three Muskateers!” he says. “Back in action! Oier kept trying to take your spot but I was like, _No, man, you’re too tall._ ”

“That’s a lie, by the way,” Rafa says. “He actively tried to recruit Oier, and Oier said no.”

“Well, thanks,” Thiago says. “You’re a really great friend.”

“Hey,” Jonathan says. “You _draw_ on me when I’m asleep. Compared to you, I’m an angel.”

Rafa looks at Thiago and shrugs, as if to say, _Well, he’s right,_ and so Thiago doesn’t argue it. Jonathan grabs them a football and they warm up, the three of them together, short passes, quick, quick, quick. Thiago likes that, the sound of a boot tapping a football, has missed that even though it’s only been three days.

“Faster!” El Mister yells, not at them but just at everyone in general. And so they pick up the pace, _tap, tap, tap, tap,_ like the rhythm of Thiago’s beating heart.

 

They sneak out of the house late that night. It’s not a big deal—it’s stupid, actually, because they’re adults now and it’s not like their parents would have a problem with any of it—but it’s fun anyways, something in the excitement of breaking the rules. And they’re not even breaking the rules, not really, they’re just going to the beach, but they were good kids and never needed to rebel against their parents, and so this almost seems daring.

Thiago slides open the window to his bedroom and puts one leg through until he’s straddling the windowsill. Rafa’s still looking for a jacket.

“Just take any one,” Thiago says. “Your training one is right there.”

“I don’t want to take my training one. I have to actually wear that to training.” He’s rooting around for something else to wear, and Thiago wants to say, _This is my bedroom; you’re not going to find any of your clothing here,_ but he doesn’t. Instead, he watches Rafa throw on one of his old sweatshirts, a Nike one that’s crammed into the back of his closet.

Climbing down is easy, almost as if the house was made for it; there are ledges and railings and then after that, just a short drop down into the grass. It’s like child’s play, almost. It’s nice, though, knowing that even if their parents hear them climbing out, hear a shoe scrape against a window or a grunt as one of them jumps down once they’re close enough to the ground, they’d never suspect it was one of their boys, one of their nice, polite boys, sneaking out in the middle of the night. Alcántaras don’t do that sort of thing; Alcántaras play football and go to bed on time.

When they make it to the driveway, Thiago almost slips on the wet concrete. Rafa’s got a firm grip on his wrist and it keeps him from going anywhere.

 

The drive to the beach is quiet. The streets are empty and wet. They roll the windows down and turn the radio on low, and sometimes Rafa sings along but sometimes he doesn’t, and either way is alright with Thiago.

“Do you think we missed out?” Rafa asks when he’s not singing, and Thiago doesn’t understand.

“Missed out on what?” he asks.

“On… I don’t know. Being normal, sneaking out.” 

Thiago looks at Rafa but Rafa’s looking out the window. And he thinks on it, for a second, wonders if he missed out or not, thinks of all the normal people he’s met that don’t play football. And—to not play football, that’s something Thiago can barely imagine because he loves playing football almost as much as he loves anything else in the world. And maybe, maybe if there wasn’t football, he wouldn’t be friends with Rafa. Plenty of people he knows don’t get along with their siblings, but he and Rafa always had football—at the very least, there was always football—and so they never had much of a problem. And he thinks, life without Rafa. _Life without Rafa._ He can’t even picture life without Rafa because Rafa’s the one person who really gets him, who really understands him. And yeah, there’s Jonathan too, and he loves Jonathan, too, but Rafa is Rafa and Jonathan is Jonathan and he can’t even begin to compare the two because _Rafa._ What else can he say?

“No,” he says. “No, I think everybody else missed out on this.”

“Yeah,” Rafa says. “Me, too.”

 

When they get to the beach, Thiago parks the car and then pops the trunk to grab one of his footballs. He tosses it out into the sand and Rafa walks with it at his feet, down towards the water. Thiago grabs two cones and then jogs after him, only slowing down once he’s caught up.

They know what to do without having to talk because they’ve been doing it since they were kids, since they learned how to walk. Thiago sets up the cones to form a goal and they take turns playing keeper, each of them taking progressively more and more ridiculous shots.

When they get tired of that, Rafa takes his shirt off, throws it into the sand and takes off running into the water. Thiago follows him without a question, without a thought. The water is cold on his skin, gives him goosebumps right away, but Rafa seems to be fine, seems to have no problems.

They float on their backs and look at the stars, the moon. Rafa says that he read that you could see Mars this time of year, but that he’s not sure which one it is. Thiago says that maybe it’s the one nearest to the moon, but Rafa corrects him, tells him that’s Venus.

“How do you know all of this stuff?” Thiago asks. He’s impressed.

“I don’t know,” Rafa says. “I read about it, I don’t know.”

And Thiago wants to say, _You should be an astronomer if football doesn’t work out,_ but that’s not what either of them wants to hear because they’re both going to play for the first squad, definitely, and so instead he says, “Have you ever thought about what you’d do if you weren’t any good at football?”

“Not really,” Rafa says. “Why, have you?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Sometimes,” but he means _all the time._ “When I was younger, I wanted to be a writer. You know, like novels and stuff.”

“That’s cool,” Rafa says, and Thiago likes that he doesn’t laugh. “When I was younger, I wanted to be a goalkeeper, but that’s it.”

“Why?” Thiago asks, because that’s ridiculous; they’re both terrible at goalkeeping, both hate it.

“Because, I don’t know,” Rafa says. “Because every time you played football, you needed a keeper.”

And that—it shouldn’t, it’s so stupid, but a part of Thiago feels so sad at hearing that because he’ll always need Rafa, always and forever, and he doesn’t understand how Rafa could have thought otherwise.

So Thiago sits up in the water and he tugs on Rafa’s wrist until Rafa’s looking right at him, and he wants to tell Rafa how much he needs him, all the time, in every way possible because Rafa is his best friend and his brother and his everything-in-between, everything that comes with that, but he can’t, doesn’t know the words.

And so instead of saying any of that, Thiago leans forward and kisses Rafa on the mouth. He doesn’t mean for it to last as long as it does, but Rafa doesn’t mind and Thiago doesn’t mind and it’s just them, just the two of them, and so they kiss in the water, Thiago’s hand around Rafa’s wrist, and he hopes that Rafa gets it.

Rafa kisses back and Thiago thinks that maybe this is what has been missing from his life this entire time, that maybe this is the best version of them that there is—together and content and together.

When they pack up and head back to the car, they don’t speak much. It’s alright; none of it feels awkward—it feels right—and Rafa goes back to sometimes singing along with the radio and sometimes not, and the entire drive their elbows touch on the center console. 

They pull up to their house and all the lights are still off, everyone still asleep. They climb back into Thiago’s window and take off their wet clothes to put in the laundry bin; Thiago gives Rafa shorts and a t-shirt and pretends not to watch when Rafa puts them on.

“I wish we could…” Thiago says, and he doesn’t finish it, but Rafa gets him anyways.

“I know,” he says. “Me too.” And then he says something to Thiago, something only with eyebrows and the hunch of his shoulders, and then Thiago has to watch him leave, head back to his room.

And then, for the next twenty minutes or however long it takes Thiago to fall asleep, he stares at the ceiling and tries to figure out what Rafa meant.

 

Thiago heads downstairs in the morning and Rafa’s already there eating breakfast at the kitchen table. It’s weird, but Rafa acts almost like last night didn’t happen, or if it did, it didn’t matter. It mattered to Thiago; it mattered a lot. But at the end of the day, Rafa means more than anything that could have ever happened between them and so Thiago grabs a glass and sits down at the table with him and says, “Pass the juice?”

And that’s it, that’s how it is. It’s not awkward or different or anything, just… normal. Thiago doesn’t know why he ever expected things to be different, doesn’t know how he expected things to change. They go to practice and still stretch together, and they work short passes with Jonathan together, and they go to the La Masia kitchen to get a snack together, and it’s all good, it’s all how it should be.

Thiago likes the dining room at La Masia, really does. They have great food there and he almost wishes that he lived there, but it’s not like he’d for sure be rooming with Rafa or Jonathan, anyways, and so he’s glad that he stayed at home. Either way, they always play the greatest music there—not always the _best,_ but songs that everyone knows and that can range anywhere from super cheesy to actually awesome.

“What if,” Jonathan says when the song switches to 80s music— _Tan Enamorado_ — and he’s eating a banana, waving it around wildly. “What if Ricardo Montaner was a Barça fan?”

Thiago laughs loudly, shakes his head and says, “Seriously? He’s from Argentina. He probably likes River Plate or Boca Juniors or something.”

“Hey now,” Jonathan says. “Barcelona is _universal;_ I’m _Mexican._ ”

Rafa ignores the both of them and just throws his arms around their shoulders and sways, singing at the top of his lungs, _“Estoy aquí, tan enamorado de ti!”_ and everyone in the dining room looks at them and laughs a bit. Thiago thinks that he likes this—Rafa’s arm slung around him—and he wonders why Rafa doesn’t even care, why Rafa’s just going on like it was another day when it’s _not._

Jonathan smiles like everyone else but says, “You’re crazy. And your voice is terrible.”

“No, no, no,” Thiago says, because if Rafa’s going to be normal then he has to, absolutely has to. “His voice is _universal._ He was born in Italy and yet the Spanish? Love him.”

Rafa smiles and nods, looks at Jonathan and says, “They do.”

“You two are the worst,” Jonathan says, but he doesn’t mean it. He sings with them the next time the chorus comes around.

 

They eat dinner at home and everything’s exactly how it always was except for how Thiago can’t stop staring at Rafa’s mouth and Rafa doesn’t even notice. Jonathan eats with them, too, because Jonathan’s basically their brother—one of the Three Muskateers—and their mother loves him, says he’s a nice boy.

As they’re clearing the dishes, Jonathan says, “What if your parents adopted me? They love me more than they love you.”

“I’d probably kill myself,” Rafa says.

“Run away,” Thiago offers.

“Oh, okay, great,” Jonathan says. “So I’ll look into it, then.”

Afterwards, they all pile into the living room to watch _Mortadelo y Filemón. Misión: salvar la Tierra,_ even though it’s kind of stupid. Jonathan stretches out on the couch and Rafa smacks his shins to get him to move; Thiago sits in the armchair beside them.

They eat Crema Catalana for dessert—more than they probably should—and Rafa drops some on the couch; Thiago watches as he tries to scoop it up with one curved finger before finally settling for just rubbing it into the cushion, and he notices when, halfway through the movie, Jonathan lies down and stretches his legs out over Rafa’s, and Rafa doesn’t even mind.

And suddenly—suddenly Thiago has to get out of there because it’s like he can’t breathe or something and it’s all because of Rafa and how Rafa let him kiss him and how Rafa didn’t care afterwards. Because now that Thiago knows what it’s like to have Rafa as more than his best friend, as more than his brother, he’s not so sure he can go back. And all this time he was so worried about Rafa messing it all up, and now look at him, he’s the one ruining everything.

He stands up and says, “Hey guys, actually, I’m just going to go upstairs and go to sleep. I don’t really feel well.”

“I thought you were better,” Rafa says, and he looks worried and Thiago feels like the worst person in the world.

“Feel better, man,” Jonathan says. “We’re gonna need you come match time.”

“Will do,” Thiago says, and he completely ignores what Rafa said.

Up in his room, he strips down to his boxers and climbs into bed. He tries to read that morning’s _El Mundo Deportivo_ but he can’t keep his mind on it because his thoughts keep wandering back to how Rafa’s lips felt against his own and how he’s such an idiot for kissing him in the first place and how he couldn’t bear it if something happened and he lost Rafa forever.

Thiago decides, forget it, and he shuts off the light, lies down and stares at the ceiling. He can hear Rafa and Jonathan laughing downstairs.

 

And then, without even having realized that he was falling asleep, Thiago’s woken up by the sound of his door opening. The light’s on in the hall and it’s so bright that Thiago can’t see who it is, but he knows anyways, somehow, that it’s Rafa. He sits up.

“Hey,” he says, and his voice is thick with sleep. “What time is it?”

“Twelve-thirty,” Rafa says, and he walks over, sits cross-legged at the end of the bed. With the door shut, Thiago can see him so much better. “I’m so mad at you right now.”

“Why?” Thiago asks. “What’d I do?” Because he was just doing what Rafa was doing by ignoring it, and Rafa didn’t seem to have a problem at the beach, and Thiago doesn’t—doesn’t know—

Rafa shakes his head and says, “I don’t know.”

“Yes you do,” Thiago says, because of course Rafa knows, he wouldn’t be mad if he didn’t.

“You can’t just kiss me and then act like it didn’t happen,” he says, and he won’t look at Thiago. “You’re my brother; you can’t—you can’t _do_ that.”

“Oh,” Thiago says, because, _oh._ “I’m, um. I’m sorry that I—”

“No, I don’t—” Rafa cuts him off. He’s winding the bed sheet around one finger. “Are you, though? Are you really sorry?”

Thiago shakes his head because he can’t lie to Rafa, not even about this.

“No,” he says. “I’m not.”

And then Rafa lets out this huge breath and says, “Good. Me neither.”

“Then why are you acting like it never happened?” he asks.

“Why are _you_?”

“I don’t know,” Thiago says, and he doesn’t, because all he’s wanted to do all day was kiss Rafa again, even though Rafa is his brother and he’s not supposed to.

Rafa bites his lip and nods his head to himself, like he’s figuring something out in his head. Thiago doesn’t say anything, just watches, because he likes watching Rafa.

“Okay,” Rafa says, and then he leans forward and kisses Thiago, right on the lips, just like at the beach, only this time they’re at home, on a bed, and it’s completely different.

Rafa pushes forward and Thiago wraps one of his hands around Rafa’s arm as they kiss, slow and unsure at first until they find their ground, and then it’s more, more tongue and more lips and more. And a part of Thiago wants to lean back on the bed but he doesn’t because he doesn’t know if he’ll ever get Rafa like this again and so he pushes forward, pushes against Rafa until their bodies are flush, and he can’t believe that—can’t believe that Rafa is hard already.

“Fuck,” Rafa says, and his hands are all over Thiago’s bare chest and that makes Thiago remember that Rafa’s still wearing all his clothes and so he tugs at his shirt. Rafa gets it, takes it off, and then they’re kissing chest to chest and his skin is against Thiago’s, and this is _Rafa,_ and that makes all the difference.

“Can I?” Thiago asks.

“ _Yes,_ ” Rafa says, and Thiago undoes the button of his jeans, tugs them down over his hips, and then just rests his palm on Rafa’s lower belly. He waits a minute and they both breathe, in time, and then Thiago moves and wraps his fingers around Rafa’s cock, gives it one firm tug.

Rafa makes a noise in the back of his throat and it’s the sexiest thing Thiago’s ever heard in his life, but still, he says, “Quiet, you’ve got to be quiet.”

And Rafa tries, Thiago can tell that he really tries, only he’s not very successful. He kisses Thiago, though, and that helps, kisses Thiago and pushes him back on the bed until they’re both lying down, Rafa on top, Thiago’s hands scrambling at Rafa’s hips, pulling him closer and closer and closer.

And it happens like that, just the two of them kissing on Thiago’s bed, rutting against each other, and it doesn’t take long for either of them to come. But Rafa lies there afterwards, kisses Thiago’s chest once, and he’s _there_ , and Thiago falls asleep.

 

Rafa isn’t there in the morning. It’s only to be expected, Thiago tells himself, because they’re at home and they’re brothers and they shouldn’t have in the first place. But still.

He throws on jeans and a t-shirt and walks downstairs, and Rafa’s at the kitchen table eating cereal. He doesn’t say anything to Thiago and Thiago thinks—doesn’t think anything, just grabs a glass and sits at the table with him.

“Pass the juice?” he asks.

“So needy,” Rafa says, and he rolls his eyes, but he smiles while he does it, a smile that says something that Thiago understands even if he can’t put it into words, because Rafa is his brother and Rafa is his friend and Rafa is Rafa and Thiago is Thiago and that’s it, nothing more and nothing less. 

Rafa’s foot nudges Thiago’s under the table, and Thiago smiles back.


End file.
